Progress?

I took a bartending certification test online today; in particular, it was the RESPONSIBLE SERVING COURSE. This is when I remind and/or inform all of you that I have a Masters degree in Theater History and Acting Theory. But that's neither here nor there. Mama gots to supplement her income before Paul Thomas Anderson calls and/or she falls back on teaching.

Before one takes the test, you have the option of flipping through electronic flashcards pertaining to the information contained on the exam. I came across some real gems, but the following had me on the floor:

"Guidelines for checking ID:
In addition to examining height, hairline and chin shape, look for the following:
Lack of beard in young males..."

OK, that all makes sense...

"...Lack of pelvic or breast development..."

Oh. Um, I'll take their word on it. I don't need some dude telling me to get my face out of his pelvis... again.

"... Large barrettes or bows worn in the hair..."

Really? Who wears those except preteen British girls in sailor dresses?

"...Extreme trends favored by younger generation, for example, "punk" look or bizarre haircut..."

Well, that doesn't seem fair. I know plenty of punks with terrible haircuts in their 20s that can and NEED to drink. They're called actors. They're poor and depressed because they're doing free shows that no one sees in Donny's Skybox.

"...Acid washed jeans, denim mini skirts, non matching earrings, earrings only worn in one ear, high top sneakers with colorful or no shoe laces, and wearing multiple layers of clothing."

So, I guess tacky dressers trapped in 1985 aren't allowed to drink. How are people that live in rural communities supposed to tie one on? What else do they have?

I'm now armed with the pertinent information I need to save the youth of Illinois from the perils of underage drinking. Look out, punk kids! That boombox on your shoulder is a dead giveaway! Now pick up that cardboard you're breakdancing on and moonwalk on home!

Oh boy...

Few things make me happier than watching the 20-something paralegals and CPAs of our fair city attempt to do the cardio hip hop class at my gym. It's priceless. Sexy faces and awkward bodies. Hilarious.

Just to clarify: I'm not in the hip hop class. I'm on the outside of the glass waiting for my cardio kickboxing class to start, so some other cynical chick can judge me. And believe me, there's plenty to judge. You should really see me pretending to kick ass. I believe my own hype!

Resolution

An illustration of why I can't seem to lose that last 5 pounds:



I glanced over to my nightstand last night, and this is what I saw. Allow me to be your docent:

See the jar of peanut butter? It's sitting next to the spoon I had just been using to scoop the delicious goodness directly into my mouth. That shiny tinfoil is the only evidence of the Christmas chocolate Santa I had dipped into the peanut butter because, apparently pure peanut butter isn't decadent enough.

Please note that this arrangement is resting on a book titled, "The Workout," by Gunnar Peterson, fitness guru to the stars.

I'm using it as a placemat.